by Pam Godwin
A track of clean wood gleamed along the otherwise dusty floor, tracing a path from the threshold to somewhere beyond the shadows. A trail recently made by footsteps. She toed the dust layer around it, noting the thickness. No one had moved outside that track for months. Probably years.
Placing the jacket on the clean path, she straightened and returned her hands to the air. “I’m standing directly in the sunlight. No weapons. No phone. You can see for yourself.”
No response.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, her breaths quickening with the rush of her words.
“My name is Rylee. Originally from El Paso. I moved from there ten years ago because…uh… Well, I’ll get to that. I know you have a gun trained on me. I don’t blame you since you don’t know me or trust me. But believe me when I say I’m more afraid than you are right now. I mean, I can’t see you, but you can see me. That puts me at a disadvantage. So I’m just going to keep my hands up and slowly step inside. You said this floorboard creaks so…” She put her boot on it, listening to it protest beneath her slight weight. “Don’t shoot.”
With the windows covered and the door wide open, a single beam of sunlight stabbed through the darkness, illuminating dust particles like sparkles of glitter.
They made their way into her lungs, and she coughed, cringing as the hacking sound echoed through the house. Dusty boards, dusty drapes, dusty furniture. In the middle of the desert, there was no escape from the powdered sand that covered every surface and filled every crack. She coughed again, stirring up a maelstrom of dirt into the torpid air.
“I know you’re here, Tommy.” She squinted at the impenetrable shadows, her scalp crawling with dread. “Please, talk to me.”
A rustling sound swished on her left, and she spun toward it, gulping. “Tommy?”
Another soft noise whispered behind her. She whirled again, and the door slammed shut, dousing her in pitch blackness.
Sharp, icy fear shot through her, stiffening her joints and freezing her lungs. She tried to speak, but her voice abandoned her. She needed to move to a window and rip off the drapes, but her legs wouldn’t work.
Why hadn’t she thought to bring the flashlight from the truck?
Another dry cough erupted from her chest, and the wheezing unleashed her voice.
“I’m just going to start talking and try to explain, okay?” She cleared her throat, trembling with unease. “I married the love of my life twenty-three years ago. We had a beautiful life, a promising future, yadda, yadda, lots of superfluous words.” She hugged her waist, fighting down old anger as her senses strained in the dark. “Ten years ago, I walked in on him banging another woman. Maybe it’s not the same loss you experienced with Caroline, but I loved him. Every breath in my body was his. You know what it feels like to lose your entire world. But I’m not as strong as you. I wasn’t. I died that day and had every intention of killing myself for good. I told you how I acquired Caroline’s jacket. I never should’ve logged into the account you created for her. But there I was, standing on the edge of the Pecos River Bridge, when you sent the first email. I wasn’t going to read it. I was just going to delete the account and jump. I was going to die, Tommy. I had no reason to live. Until I saw the subject line of your message. I need you. Do you remember it?”
Her question hung in the dry air, her eyes wide and unblinking. The memory still hurt. The sticky, hateful slime in her stomach never faded. But she’d managed to keep breathing, keep functioning, even if she was dysfunctional as fuck.
She held still, listening for the sounds of his breaths, footsteps, anything to give away his location.
Seconds of tingling silence passed. He hadn’t shot her in the head yet, so that was something.
“You must think I’m a nutjob.” She wiped at the sweat gathering on her brow. “Anyone would think that if I told them about you. I haven’t. No one has seen your emails. But here’s the thing, Tommy. I’m not suicidal anymore. I want to walk out of here unharmed. So I made copies of your messages. They won’t be discovered unless I go missing. If I don’t return home when I’m expected, the authorities will find those copies and know that I drove here to meet with Tomas Owen Dine. I don’t want that to happen. I’m not here to hurt you. I have nothing to gain from that. I just want to talk.” She caught her breath. “Turn on the lights.”
Please, don’t kill me. Please, don’t kill me.
He didn’t make a sound. Nothing.
The longer he kept her in the dark, the more fearful and furious she became.
“I know you’re pissed.” She forced bravado into her tone. “Fine. Yell at me. Let me hear it. Act like a fucking adult and confront me.”
He still had some anonymity because she didn’t know what he looked like. But this wasn’t about him hiding his face. He was fucking with her.
“I know what you’re doing with the silent treatment. The bullshit intimidation tactics are beneath you. It’s a dick move and a waste of time. Don’t forget, whether you like it or not, I know you better than anyone.”
“Are you familiar with the rule of threes?” His deep, gruff voice came from behind her.
With a gasp, she pivoted, reaching out and grabbing only air. “You’re talking about the rules for survival?”
Where the hell was he? She stumbled through the dark, arms out, and bumped into the back of the couch.
The bastard was playing with her. Not unexpected. If he terrorized her enough, he could break her down to her most basic instinct. Survival. A human could only endure so much before they surrendered.
But she’d come here prepared to endure a lot.
Where were the windows? Or the light switch? The sheer absence of sight and sound disorientated her. She needed to keep him talking.
“Tell me about the rule of threes.” She moved on shaky legs, hopefully in the direction of the door.
“It takes three seconds to make a life-or-death decision.” His breath licked across her nape. “Three.”
“You won’t hurt me.” She shivered, uncertain.
“Two.”
“I’m not your enemy.” She reached for the door, seeking light. Or momentary escape.
“One.”
Her fingers caught the knob just as his hands clamped over her mouth and nose.
She bucked, fighting on instinct. She grabbed at his fingers and twisted, thrashing her body and going nowhere against the powerful strength of his.
Jesus fuck, he was huge and brawny and utterly immovable. She’d always pictured him as a gangly, pimple-faced, seventeen-year-old boy. But the beast who was restraining her and cutting off her oxygen was nothing short of terrifying.
Her frantic struggling bumped her back against a hard-muscled frame. A frame that towered over her by a foot. He stood like a concrete pillar behind her, no part of him jostling or shifting as she jerked and kicked and wore herself out.
“You can survive three minutes without air.” The cadence of his timbre glided over her like velvet.
Three minutes? No fucking way. Maybe if she was unconscious. Even then, the asphyxiation could cause brain damage.
Her lungs burned, and her chest raged with fiery panic. Had it even been a minute?
She renewed her efforts to escape, flailing for air and trying to bite his hand.
“Two weeks ago, I watched my friend do this to a girl hanging on a meat hook.” He adjusted his grip, pinching her nose while smothering her mouth. “She was innocent. Unlike you.”
Tears leaked from her eyes and gathered at his fingers. She surpassed discomfort and denial and plummeted headlong into frenzied desperation. She was going to die, right here in the dark, in the arms of a man who never showed her his face. With each second that passed, she was certain it was her last.
“You can survive three hours in the extreme heat of a harsh environment.” His stony voice penetrated her agony, torturing her dying heart. “Three days without water. Three weeks without food. Three months without hope.” His lips bru
shed her ear. “Welcome to my world, Rylee from El Paso.”
Her lungs gave out, and shadows crept in on all sides, raiding all conscious thought until nothing remained.
No bright light. No life flash. No euphoria.
Just an endless absence of being.
“Did you kill her?”
“Who fucking cares?” Tomas snarled into the phone and nudged the woman’s limp body with his boot.
Calling Cole Hartman was the last thing he wanted to do, but he needed information. Who did she work for? What were her connections? Who would miss her? Why had she really come here?
The woman had an agenda, and she’d been diligent about not giving it away.
He needed Cole to do the investigative work, but when his friend answered the phone, the first thing Tomas asked was, Are Luke and Vera alive?
Last time he’d seen or heard from Luke was in the limo before the cartel had escorted Tomas off the property.
Not only had Luke and Vera survived, but apparently, she’d strapped herself with weapons, including a grenade, and taken down the whole fucking La Rocha family. Christ almighty, Tomas adored her. She was beautiful, ferocious, and the perfect match for Luke. Hearing that they were both safe in Colombia almost lifted his murderous mood.
Almost.
He grimaced at the brunette laid out on the floor. Killing her was the cleanest way to handle this, but first, he needed to know who she was.
When he’d received her email a week ago, he intended to hunt her down before she showed up here. But that plan was fucked to hell when the cartel forced him out of the limo at gunpoint. He’d found himself stranded in California without money, transportation, or an untraceable phone.
By the time he stole a car, stole another one when he ran out of gas, dumped the last car, and hiked the rest of the way to the house, he’d run out of time. With only a day to spare, he’d spent those hours preparing for the woman’s arrival.
Electricity to the house was kept on to power the security cameras and satellite. The latter allowed him to contact Cole. But the moment he hiked out of range of the house, the outside world would be inaccessible.
That was ideal for what he had planned.
He couldn’t kill her right away, and considering the seemingly harmless, but insidious manner in which she’d been spying on him for ten goddamn years, he knew it would take some effort to crack her.
So when she’d stopped breathing against his hand, he’d resuscitated her.
“Did you receive the photo I sent of her?” He swept his gaze over the unconscious body, ignoring all the sinful dips and curves and focusing on the fragile bones that would shatter beneath his fists.
“Yeah, I got it,” Cole said. “She looks dead. Tell me she’s not.”
He crouched beside her and touched the pulse point on her throat. “She’s not. For now.”
“Listen up. If she has copies of your emails, you need her alive and compliant. Don’t fuck this up. The lives of your entire team are on the line.”
Of course, he fucking knew that. He’d made a mistake sending those emails. A horrendous, mortifying mistake that started when he was seventeen. He hadn’t known any better then. But he couldn’t use that excuse ten years later.
He would fix this.
“She’s not carrying ID?” Cole asked.
“Nothing. I searched her pockets, her truck, and all the gear inside it. No phone. She even removed the license plates.”
“She’s smart.”
“She doesn’t look so smart now.” He glared at her sulky lips which, just moments ago, had been sucking for air against his hand like a dying fish.
“Any tattoos, scars, or birthmarks?”
“None that I can see.”
“You haven’t stripped her yet?”
“I’m not a pervert.”
“Right.” Cole’s disbelieving tone grated. “How long ago did you knock her out? She shouldn’t still be unconscious.”
“I gave her a sedative.”
Cole didn’t need to ask where the tranquilizer came from. When Tomas and his roommates sold their house in Austin, Texas and moved to the Restrepo headquarters in Colombia, he’d transferred their weapons, electronics, burner phones, and medical supplies here, along with nonperishables, bottled water, and petty cash. It had been Cole’s idea. A precautionary measure to ensure the team had a safe house in Texas.
Tomas had enough equipment in this house to restrain and torture the woman for months.
“Okay, so next steps…” Cole exhaled into the phone. “I don’t condone the kidnapping of innocent—”
“She trespassed on my property, willingly walked into my house, and she’s far from innocent.”
“She’s guilty of invading your privacy. She hasn’t killed anyone.”
“That we know of. She has a cheating ex-husband.” He updated Cole on everything she’d said when she walked in. “I don’t know why she disclosed the details of the affair.”
“I’ll find out. Just stay put and keep her restrained.”
“Where are you?”
“Almost there.”
“What the fuck? No, turn back. You don’t need to be here.” Goddammit, he should’ve known Cole would show up. “I don’t need a babysitter or anyone to clean up my mess. I just need information, and you can dig that up at the headquarters.”
“I’ve been working with Luke and Tate for the past week trying to do just that. We scoured the IP addresses of all the activity on the email account. There’s no forwarded mail. No suspicious logins. She knows how to erase her tracks.”
“She’s in law enforcement.”
“Her email implied that, but it’s not confirmed. I’ll stop in El Paso to do some digging before heading your way. Might take me a few days. In the meantime—”
“I’ll call you when she starts spilling secrets.” Tomas hung up, seething with frustration.
He couldn’t stop Cole from coming to the house. But it didn’t matter. His plan to break down Rylee piece by piece would begin out there. He turned toward the open door, sweating in the heat that blasted in from outside.
Four hours until sunset.
He spent the next few minutes unloading her truck. On his way back inside, he tore off his sweat-drenched shirt and checked her breathing.
The cuff on her wrist attached to a chain that restrained her to a post. But she wouldn’t be waking any time soon.
He sat back on his heels and let himself fully look at her for the first time.
Long brown hair framed a pixie face. A tiny turned-up nose, cupid lips, and symmetrical features rounded out her delicate bone structure. Flawless porcelain skin and a toned physique gave her the appearance of a woman in her twenties. But she married twenty-three years ago? If that were true, Tomas would’ve been four at the time.
That would put her in her forties now. Hard to believe.
Maybe she had laugh lines when she smiled or crow’s feet when she squinted. But with the muscles relaxed in her face, there were no wrinkles or sunspots. No indication that she was older than him.
Her tits sat high. Her waist tucked in, and her jeans molded to slender hips and legs, leaving little to the imagination. The woman was built. Easily fuckable. Insanely gorgeous.
That only made him hate her more.
Shifting away, he turned his attention to the denim jacket that lay near the door. He remembered it well—the soft texture beneath his hands, the scent of vanilla on the collar, and the small front pocket, where he watched Caroline slip the scrap of paper he’d given her the day she died.
If he hadn’t written down the account information, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Hell, he should’ve never written down any of his secrets.
Not just his secrets. He’d spewed an unedited, unfiltered stream of consciousness in those emails. He’d detailed his fears, his regrets, every internal battle, every ridiculous notion in his head, every terrible thing that happened to him, and his desires… Fucking hell, she kne
w his darkest cravings, his filthy fantasies, his obsession with fucking and dominating and his inability to emotionally connect to sex.
He’d confessed every shameful thought to his girl. Because she was dead. He never imagined anyone reading it. Why would they want to?
What a dumb fucking asshole.
Except the writing had helped him. It had given him a sense of control over a life that had spiraled wildly and dangerously into chaos.
He lifted the jacket to his nose and inhaled deeply. Caroline’s vanilla scent was long gone. In its place lingered the aroma of an unfamiliar woman. Undertones of lavender drowned in years of deceit.
He hated her with a blinding passion.
Fury burned anew as he stored the jacket safely in his old bedroom.
Then he loaded the woman into the truck and drove her into the desert.
Rylee woke with a hangover.
In the middle of the godforsaken desert.
The sun’s unblinking eye glared down at her, scorching her from the inside out. Nausea, headache, crushing heat… She rolled to her stomach and retched precious fluid, groaning miserably.
Fresh pain seeped into her palms, where she’d planted them on the ground.
“Ow, ow, fuck!” She pushed to her knees and shook out her blazing hands.
The sand was the sky’s co-conspirator, cooking her as viciously as the sun. And there were miles of it in every direction.
He hadn’t just dumped her in this desolate wasteland alone.
He’d shackled her.
A thick leather cuff clamped around her wrist, secured with a tiny padlock. The ring connected to a chain that snaked through the sand and circled the base of an old telephone pole.
From one horizon to the other, that pole was the only sign of human civilization.
Deep cracks forked through the parched earth beneath her, burnt into a hard crust, no more hospitable than a sunbaked rock. If Tommy had driven her here in her truck, the tires had made no impression on the ground.
She felt sick. Aside from her churning stomach, dusty throat, pounding headache, achy muscles, and feverish flu-like symptoms, she was frying in this heat, and that worried her more than anything.
